Delicacy: A delicate operation
by clarrie
Summary: NEW CHAPTER: 1957 - The wanderers return. A sequel to 'Delicacy: A delicate test.' (Please tell me if you feel this has been wrongly catergorised)
1. Default Chapter

  
**TITLE: **Delicacy: A delicate operation.   
**AUTHOR: **clarrie  
**DISCLAIMER: **It's a multiple crossover.  
I do not own any of the Conan-Doyle or Laurie R King characters used or the concept of Slayers and the Watchers Council  


1957: Wapping: London: 4:20am 

_'Marie,'_ The slim, well dressed woman patted her dark black coiffure and sneered back at the girl, sniffing irritably at her gangly inelegance, watching her stumble along the gangplank beneath the weight of the luggage, laughing at her frustration. 'What on earth are you dallying for, come, come.' She reached dissmissively for the arm of her male companion, 'Marie you lump, what on earth are you doing, you're holding us all up dear....' The woman shifted her posture, from dominant to artfully submissive and pouted, 'I want to be in Clarridges by sunrise, you _promised,_ Slim' She whined, playing with the buttons on her companion's coat. 'I feel queasy.'  
An odd pairing, standing out from the other passengers trickling onto the dockside.  
He stood rather over six foot tall, neat as a cat in tailored black coat, a profile reminiscent of a tethered bird of prey with eyes dulled, but across which passed the occasional brief flash as something on the periphery of his vision caught his attention. The woman at his side provided a contrast to her mate, unrestrained in pastels and as self absorbed as a spinning top she stood fully a foot short of her companion. Taking his attention with a touch to his chest, she pouted, and whined, and bathed in the knowledge that in his eyes she eclipsed and predominated the whole of her sex. '_Slim._' There was a continental trill to her voice, a riviera style to her clothing and manners which contrasted oddly with her skin tone, pale, so very white it seemed blue in the pre-dawn moonlight. An odd pair - and both exuding such an air of smug cruelty that the eye did not care to linger.  
She turned, balancing a slim pair of sunglasses on her upturned nose, the daintiest thing under a flower trimmed cloche on the planet. 'Marie,' she barked as the crowd of departing travellers swarmed around her, 'If it would please her highness to stop being such a lazy little cow and hurry along with our baggage -' She paused in confusion as an anonymous figure jostled her, 'You stupid - This is Chanel! I -'  
A pair of pale eyes, burning with the joyous flame of the devout stared up at her. 'Die, witch.' Hissed the Slayer, as she drove the thin cylinder of wood deep into Irene Adler's heart.

Confusion, the unthinking panic of a crowd who had seen but did not understand, and taking advantage of the conditions the Slayer - melting away into the darkness....


	2. Delicacy: A delicate operation

  
**TITLE: **Delicacy: A delicate operation.   
**AUTHOR: **clarrie  
**DISCLAIMER: **It's a multiple crossover.  
I do not own any of the Conan-Doyle or Laurie R King characters used or the concept of Slayers and the Watchers Council  


_'Bring me my bow of burning gold,'_ The combined voices of the Watchers rose in unison towards the high stone ceiling of the Chapel, a crowd of brown and grey self assurance coming together in worship of history and the power of example, '_Bring me my arrows of de-sire..._'  
William Reed stared, open mouthed, in wonder at the carvings which crowded the interior of the building. Gargoyles in recognisable demon form leered and gestured from among the eaves, a twisted, intricate tree of life supported the roof above him, and everywhere he looked there were bees. Immortality in stone carved by hands long turned to dust. At least he assumed, he was unsure that a definite statement could ever be made in that area any more. '_Bring me my chariot of fire_ - Brooke?' Whispered Reed to the young Watcher at his side, 'I say, Brooke?'  
_'I will not cease from mental fight,'_ His companion continued to sing earnestly,_ 'Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand_- What is it Reed?'  
'Why all the bees?'  
'Fisher King, if I remember nurse correctly - _Till we have built Jerusalem_ - the wound that does not heal exetera, exetera, exetera, as the king said. Although personally I could never work out - _in England's green_ - whether that was meant to be us or them - _pleas-ant land._' Reed hushed his friend as the music drew to an end and the figure of a senior Watcher took to the pulpit. He looked flushed and uncomfortable with public speaking, wiping his damp palms on his trouser legs as he stood before the crowd of waiting faces and staring so closely at his notes that for a moment only a shock of salt and pepper hair was visible above the lectern.  
'W-We are gathered together today,' He began, 'in memory of a tragic event. An event which has cast a shadow through the decades, touching the lives of entire generations of Watchers.' He cleared his throat nervously, 'T-today, that is, the sixtieth anniversary of the Albion Street Earling massacre, we remember those who passed on that dark day.' He shifted uncomfortably as an extremely elderly woman was assisted to the podium and began to wait beside him. 'Mrs Travers will now read the roll call of the dead.' He announced, and backed away, visibly relieved to surrender the microphone.  
Mrs Travers wrapped a desiccated hand around the lectern for support and stood, straight, tall, and painfully thin, her black dress outlining her against the background of greys, and browns, a crow amongst the pigeons. She placed a finger upon the first name and read it with a slight tremor in her voice, 'Ezra Travers, Watcher, Lucia Cientani, Slayer, Teng Hu Lun, Earling, Hesther Cohen, Earling -' The congregation bowed their heads as the litany of names and rank washed over them - 'Francesca Green, Earling, Soraya....'  


'Gods I hate those things,' Brooke drove his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket as the Watchers hurried from the Chapel, eager to return to work, to studies, to the living. 'Listing the fallen like that, maudlin I call it,' He drew a cigarette case from his pockets and offered it to his friend, 'Here, stunt your growth on me.'  
'Ta,' Reed lit his cigarette and walked beside his friend, a schoolboy enthusiasm shone from his lean, pink face. His eyes, watery brown, the colour of bottled pale ale, widened and took in the sights and sounds of the corridors. 'I'd -' He buttoned down his enthusiasm and frowned responsibly, 'I'd never been to one of those before Brooke. I thought it was absolutely-' He cleared his throat and frowned again, 'I mean, do they - do _we_ have them often?'  
'On occasion.' Brooke shot a plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth. 'We have one when the Slayer passes of course, and then there's the general memorial on All Saints' day, you'll be expected to attend that unless you've more pressing business, a couple of services to previous heads of the Council, you can generally avoid those without much trouble though.' He took the cigarette from between his lips and paused with it held level to his mouth. 'To be honest, Reed old man, I wouldn't be in any hurry to-' His words were cut off as a tear stained young woman collided heavily with him, knocking his cigarette to the floor. 'Watch it!'  
The tiny woman looked up at him, her black hair hung in dampened strands around her face, bleached and puffy with tears, her eyes, rimmed with pink, were a dirty indigo and utterly without expression.  
Brooke noted the dark, grey green smear of a bruise on her wrist and bit down hard on his tongue. 'My fault entirely,' He lied, reaching out to pat her shoulder. 'I do apologise Mrs - '  
'Imelda!' At the sound of her name being called the young woman started, and glaring back momentarily in the direction of the voice, ran on down the corridor.  
'Imelda, please!' Puffing slightly, the originator of the cry rounded the corner and stopped, startled at the presence of the two young Watchers. 'I-' He stammered, running a hand through his hair, shifting the layer of battleship grey to momentarily expose the remaining black of his youth. . 'I - did you?' Reed watched the tired looking little man as he ran his hands nervously over his face, peering out between his fingers with eyes of sad, washed out, blue. 'I- oh dear.'  
'Imelda staying with you again then is she Monty?' Brooke stepped forward and patted the older man comfortingly on the shoulder. 'Only natural, old chap, no parents of her own, only natural. You've met Reed?'  
Wymond Wyndham-Pryce shook Reed hesitantly by the hand and returned to Brooke's side, wringing his hands nervously. 'I- you see, oh dear....'  
'Only natural I suppose,' continued Brooke forcefully, 'what with young Edward being so busy. Only natural to stay with her father-in-law, I expect you appreciate the company.'  
'Yes - yes!' Wyndham-Pryce grasped the proffered conversational straw eagerly. 'He - Oh, he's so busy you see,' his eyes showed unspoken thanks, 'in his work.'  
'Yes, of course.' Brooke shook his colleague firmly by the hand. 'Best be catching up with her, eh?'  
'Yes,' Wyndham-Pryce gave a brief, nervous, smile, 'yes... Thank you...'  
Reed and Brooke watched as he scurried away down the corridor in pursuit of his weeping daughter-in-law. Brooke frowned darkly. 'Let's get a drink, eh, Reed?'  


'Two pints of Large.' Reed passed a ten bob note over the counter and waited for his change. He looked back over his shoulder at his friend as the barman wiped the overflow from their drinks with a threadbare dishcloth. Brooke sat, slouched over the table, turning a beer mat over and over in his fingertips. His jaw was thrust out in controlled irritation at a world full of things he could not change. Reed sighed and picked up their drinks.

'Pint of Large OK with you?' Reed placed the glass on the table in front of his friend and sat down beside him. 'Go on, does you good.'  
'Hmph,' Snorted Brooke, taking a sip and glaring fiercely into his pint. 'If I see Pryce anytime soon,' He drew his upper lip down under his teeth and exhaled slowly, 'I'm going to horsewhip the little shit.'  
'Not our business, Brooke, not our business.' Warned Reed gently. 'Go on, drink up, your turn to get the next lot in.'  
Brooke drained his pint and smiled uneasily at his junior's attempt to change the subject. 'Nothing like a liquid lunch to calm the savage breast, eh, Reed?' He took his wallet from his pocket and stood up. 'Reed,' He paused, suddenly serious, 'You mustn't think badly of old Monty you know, because of this. He's a good man, but, well, that boy of his is all he's got. It -It's not right I know but sometimes, with family, you can have trouble seeing 'right'.' Brooke sighed. 'Treacherous things, families. Remind me never to acquire one.'  


'Shop!' The dull smack of the customer's palm against the counter top brought Norman Gardener scurrying from his refuge in the back parlour. Rubbing biscuit crumbs from his palms he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and replaced his teacup on the sideboard.  
_'Reports of a spontaneous human combustion at the dockside in -'_ The diminutive landlord of the Bide a wi' Guest House reached up and switched off the radio, briefly surveying the pair standing before him as he turned. He cleared his throat, taking in the sight of the customer's stubble, gaunt appearance, smouldering cigarette and finally, the young blonde at his side and raised an eyebrow. 'Double, will it be Sir?'  
'With a bath.' Piped up the girl, cheerily.  
'Two singles.' Growled the older man, pinching out the flame of his cigarette and carefully ignoring the existence of the girl beside him. 'Two single rooms, without an adjoining door.'  
'But Papa...' Whined the girl, draping herself across the countertop and pouting sorrowfully. 'I've had _such_ nightmares since we lost Mamma....'  
The blow landed just below Russell's eye before she could properly prepare herself. With animal cunning she let herself fall limply to the floor as Holmes raged and lifted his fist to strike again. 'You little bitch.'  
'Here!' Norman dashed forward around the counter and placed himself between Holmes and Russell. 'I'm not having none of this type of behaviour. Come on now, take your key.' He snatched a key from the board and waved it at Holmes. 'Take your key Mr and go up to your room. Go on with you.'  
Norman watched as Holmes turned, snarling, and stalked away into the darkness of the stairwell. 'You all right, Miss?' He held out a concerned hand and pulled Russell to her feet. 'Ups a daisy, come on, brush yourself down, there.' He gently tapped the dust from her shoulders and gave a quick, nervous smile. 'Don't you mind that great bully, shameful I call it.' He took the key from its hook and pressed it into her palm. 'Here, next door to _him_. Room twenty-one C.' Norman winked conspiratorially. 'With a bath.'


	3. Delicacy: A delicate operation

  
**TITLE: **Delicacy: A delicate operation.   
**AUTHOR: **clarrie  
**DISCLAIMER: **It's a multiple crossover.  
I do not own any of the Conan-Doyle or Laurie R King characters used or the concept of Slayers and the Watchers Council  


'-All Martians he says! Stupid bugger had stumbled on a nest of Svinkorl demons. Caused an incident, we had our work cut out sorting out that mess I'll tell you....'  
'-_I vant to drink your blood!_ Honestly Camilla, you really have to see it, too, too funny.... '  
'-I mean, if you intend to do that kind of spell in the first place you need the _proper_ ingredients, not just - Are you eating that? Pass it over then, there's a dear....'  
'-Ooh, we're all martians! Pratt.'  
'-The Grevhan girl, 21 I think, old enough to know better, but what can you do with the current generation....'  
'-Give it to Charnen to do, I suppose. About time it started earning it's keep round here....'  
'-At the dockside they said. Well it's all very hush-hush and you didn't hear it from me but....'  
'-Again? They're a very odd family, well, you know the story about his mother don't you? Perfectly ridiculous....'  
'Steak and kidney?' Brooke stared into his friend's face with a grin. 'Or would you like me to give you a moment to stop eavesdropping outrageously before I repeat my question?'  
Reed blushed. 'Was I doing it again?' This wasn't his first visit to the canteen, it wasn't even his first visit to the canteen this week, but it always struck him the same, and he hoped to God that he'd never get used to it. So many snatches of conversations, casual chit-chat about subjects he'd never dreamt were actual reality. He looked around him at the light airy room at his fellow Watchers and grinned like a child. 'I-I just....'  
'Understandable, Reed, understandable. The sight of Lill Williams struggling with a shepherd's pie can take a man like that sometimes.' Joked Brooke, reaching for a tray and joining the queue for food. 'You should have come here before the war, I remember when my father brought me here for the first time. A proper old-fashioned gentleman's club it was then of course, no women, no children, no -'  
'Brooke, dear lord. Brooke, man, have you heard?' The red faced, middle aged man shook Brooke excitedly by the hand, his eyes shining wickedly. He turned to Reed and held out his hand. 'Don't believe I've had the pleasure young man, Brettingham-Smith's the name, Gregory Brettingham-Smith, yourself?'  
'Reed, William Reed.' Reed introduced himself nervously. 'Ossie-that, that is Watcher Brooke is....'  
'Ah, you're the Bantling Reed, good man, good man, keep him out of mischief, that's the ticket.' Brettingham-Smith tapped him amiably on the shoulder and turned back to Brooke. 'The Grevhan girl's baby, guess what she's gone and called it,' He paused, bubbling over with guilty amusement. 'Windermere!'  
Brooke digested the three rapidly fired syllables. He blinked, and framed a tentative question. 'Like the lake?'  
'Exactly! Exactly!' The older Watcher nodded excitedly, joyfully scandalised, 'Would you credit it!'  
'Poor little sod,' Brooke choked down a laugh, 'Like the _lake_.' He shook his head in amused resignation, '_Why_, in the name of all that is holy?'  
'What? Oh some nonsense about breaking free from the stagnancy of the past, you know what she's like.' Brettingham-Smith edged forward along the queue alongside Brooke. 'I blame the parents. What's wrong with a good old name like - like....'  
'Gregory, for instance?' Said Brooke, innocently.  
'Quite so! Quite so!' Brettingham-Smith had the grace to blush. 'Good old name, couldn't move for Gregorys when I was a lad.'  
'Watchman.' Muttered Reed.   
'What? What? Watchman?' Rattled Brettingham-Smith, blinking at the junior Watcher's sudden contribution. 'Eh?'  
'It-um, Watchman, the meaning - I, that is, one of the meanings behind, Gregory.' Reed stumbled, 'It, I- thought perhaps it may have accounted for the name's popularity.' He cleared his throat nervously. 'I'm sorry.'  
'Windermere,' chuckled Brooke ushering his companions along the line, 'If she wanted a break - steak and kidney please, love. No, with chips and peas. That's fantastic. - from tradition, what's wrong with, I don't know, _Ian_?' He shook his head. 'Poor little sod....'  


'Give 'em their due, Reed, If you'd spent most of your adult existence training a schoolgirl to kill things that want to use your eyeballs for a ritual sacrifice I should imagine you would've evolved a bit of an odd attitude to life too.' Brooke smiled at his friend as they walked through the dark corridors and fumbled in his pockets for his cigarettes. 'Which is not to say that I don't think a bit of fresh water in the old gene pool might help.' He grinned, 'Have you met my sister?'  
'Have I-' Reed's mouth hung open, 'Brooke, I -' light dawned, slowly, as it might above, say, Mount Fuji. 'You don't have a sister.'  
'Give the man a balloon!' Brooke extracted a cigarette from his case and lit it. 'Honestly though it makes me laugh, trying so very hard to be new and rational, not realising they're just keeping the ridiculousness and throwing the meaning out with the bath water.'  
They continued down the corridors, past walls painted that unique light green that only public buildings willingly choose, a colour that Reed had mentally christened 'cream of broccoli'.  
Brooke took out another cigarette and held it out for his colleague as they turned the corner. 'We bring it on ourselves though, never one to settle for the average,' he smiled as he noticed a familiar figure inspecting a notice board attached to the wall in the passageway ahead of them. 'For instance,' He raised his voice in an attempt to alert the Watcher to their presence, 'Look at the Giles brothers here. Oh, only one. Where's your brother, Giles old man?'  
'Gus?' Giles turned from his scrutiny of the cork board in front of him and smiled warmly at the two Watchers. He was a stocky, thick set man, whose appearance of stolid, no-nonsense, conformity often reassured those who had only limited dealings with his department, the very image of a family man and generic professional, an architect perhaps, or G.P. He scratched the back of his head, disrupting his now greying hair so that wisps of it stood out boyishly.  
'They found something in Cambridge,' He began to explain, 'and wanted him to have a go at identifying it. He's grubbing about in the fens as we speak, in fact, happy as a pig in sunshine. Do you need to contact him?'  
'No, no,' Brooke clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, 'Giles minor will do for our needs.' He turned to Reed, holding out his hand behind Giles in the manner of a teacher displaying a specimen to the class. 'So look at the Giles family here, Hamish and Angus! And neither of them with a closer connection to Scotland than the nearest drinks cabinet. Am I right?  
'I was named for a friend of my mother's,' Explained Giles, bashfully, 'although I believe Angus was merely a break from tradition.'  
'And what a break! Lordy,' Brooke patted Giles on the back, 'now, what did you and Louissa call that sprog of yours again?  
Giles smiled proudly, 'Rupert.'  
'Rupert! You hear that Reed? Rupert! This is wot orange juice hav done for the world.'  
'Louissa is a traditional Watcher name though,' said Reed earnestly, 'am I right Mr,' Reed corrected himself, 'Watcher Giles? Glorious battle.'  
'You've been studyin' Reed old chap, hardly fair,' clucked Brooke with a grin, 'Right though, right enough, very traditional family the Ghislins. What's that sister in law of yours called again, Jimmy?'  
'Estrildis or Hildergarde?' Enquired Giles helpfully.  
'Reckon that's my point proved there.'  


Reed gently nudged open the door to the Watchers Council Library, or rather the space in which the catalogues of all the books owned by the Council were kept, and updated, for the total number of books gathered by the Council throughout the centuries would require miles of shelving to house them and an army of staff. Never the less, almost an entire floor was taken up with books waiting to be repaired, books newly acquired and in search of classification, books no longer strong enough to be entrusted to those working in the field, a nursery, retirement home and hospital of books.  
It was deserted.  
'Brooke?' Whispered Reed. 'I don't think it's -'  
'Be with you in a jiffy!' A powerful female voice floated up from beneath the central countertop, 'Don't tie yourself in knots whispering dear,' It boomed, 'there's never anyone here Friday afternoons.'  
Bathsheba Nancy Mycroftine Holmes, Miss. Not a creature about whom efforts were often made to describe. In years past, when there were still sporadic, if somewhat half-hearted, attempts by young Watchers to further their career through nepotism, the words 'handsome' and on occasion 'stately' had been thrown around. A less charitable tongue had recently uttered the phrase 'Tweed Zeppelin'.  
Nature, in her wisdom, had seen fit to give Miss Holmes her father's figure and the Vernet nose, which, although compensated by the equally expansive mycroftian intellect, had resulted in a fondness for work which took her beyond the reach of nasty minds and sharp tongues, and had ultimately brought her to the quiet warmth of the Council Library. Dark walnut brown hair, dusted, of late, with strands of grey, was held atop her head in a sensible knot with a combination of wire hairpins and wishful thinking, brown eyes - warm, dark and hooded, almost the sole inheritance from her mother, peered out from behind thick lenses at her visitors. A bluestocking'd babushka, misplaced amongst the ancient volumes. 'Now, what was it you wanted?'  
Brooke consulted a slip of paper. 'Gheddes,' He began uncertainly, 'Gheddes on -'  
'Not a hope, sent every volume we've got of Gheddes up to Carlisle this morning.' Miss Holmes smiled politely, 'They're having something of an emergency with the - oh, but I need not bore you with that. We could call them back for you, but I shouldn't imagine they'll be back before the week's out.' Surprisingly slim, mobile fingers fluttered through the week's ledger and hovered above the pages with a pencil, 'Would that do? Good afternoon, by the way.' She added with a grin.  
'Good afternoon Miss - Watcher Holmes.'  
'Call me Batty, dear,' Miss Holmes ducked from view once more beneath the counter, reappearing with a tea caddy and a notebook, 'after all, _he_ will.' She continued, raising an affectionate eyebrow in the direction of Brooke. 'Tea?'  
'Tea, made by your hands, would be an ambrosian beverage. Nectar, spilt from the heavens, served by Aphrodite herself could not compare to your own particular brand of -'  
'Oh do shut up, Ozzie, you silly ass.' Batty removed a tin of biscuits from a shelf beneath the counter and planted them triumphantly on the tabletop. 'And don't think that I can't see you fiddling with that pipe. Spark it up in here and you're out on your ear.'  


A pale, silvery coil hovered, suspended amongst the dust, plaited threads of shining crystal, reflecting the tiniest points of light again and again until a white sheen coated the knots and loops. The dry, barren, darkness pressed against it's filigree structure, inserting itself amongst the luminous folds, clothing the entire space in an unnatural silence.  
The pure clear stream of water hung frozen in the timelessness of the cavern, trapped in a state of perpetual freefall, long after the watercourse above had dried.  
And below, They slept.  


'Ooh, lovely.' Brooke took a sip of tea and reached out for a ginger nut. 'We saw Giles on the way in here, Bats.'  
'Professor Giles is back from Cambridge?' Miss Holmes looked up excitedly from her work. 'Did he say anything? They found a thing you know, terribly interesting. They brought Angus in the moment they found it.'  
'A _thing_ Bats?'  
'Hmm, hmm, that's just it, they've not a clue what it is, not a clue.' She chattered animatedly, unaware of, or simply ignoring the gentle mocking inflection in the younger Watcher's voice. 'Absolutely fascinating, Angus says they don't even know where to begin, he says apparently it doesn't comply with any known ritual for the area or the time frame. Angus says that -'  
'Does he Bats?' Brooke grinned. 'Gosh.' He ducked as the blushing librarian batted him playfully about the ears. 'Wretch! See that Reed? The abuse I put up with in service to the Council? It's positively feudal, physical attacks upon my person!' He stretched himself melodramatically back in his chair and pressed his wrist to his forehead in a gesture of mock despair. 'Do with me what you will,' he sobbed plaintively, 'Take my honour, ruin me, play your dastardly games with my humble peasant heart only to cast me upon the - '  
'Oh do stop it you silly boy.' Miss Holmes took a sip of her tea and turned deliberately to Reed. 'You must be going absolutely potty having to listen to him jabber on all day.'  
Reed smiled shyly. 'I'm learning a lot.'   
'Hmm, I dread to think.'  
'Slanderous female!' Retorted Brooke. 'I'll have you know we've been discussing the fine old naming traditions.'  
'Oh, did you hear about -'  
'The Grevhan girl, yes, yes, old news' Brooke gave an exaggerated yawn, 'Dear me, the standards of gossip around here really are falling, Reed, don't you think?' He darted to avoid a further blow. 'Come on Reed you odious little swot, defend your mentor! Chuck a few facts over here and distract this harpy!'  
'Do you, that is, Miss Holmes is there a copy of the 'Hartnell's Slayer Lore' I might borrow?'  
'Several,' Miss Holmes disappeared momentarily amongst the shelves, returning with a well thumbed volume, the cover cracked and the pages shiny from the grease of a thousand thumbs. 'It'd do you well to get your own copy though, they're doing a reprint some time in the new year I believe - oh but of course, you have your meeting with the Slayer tomorrow don't you?'  
Reed nodded proudly, 'We're to advise her on ballistics.'  
Miss Holmes shook her head. 'You know, I remember when there was only one Watcher, well,' She hesitated, 'not only one Watcher, but you know what I mean. None of this _'need to know basis'_, Watching by committee, pallava.'  
'It's the future, Bats. Change,' Brooke drained his cup, 'And without change, we stagnate...'  


Holmes gripped the cold stone ledge and pulled himself up onto it, perching on the outcrop as the mist around him condensed on his skin. Coating him with droplets of water as if he were simply an extension of the dead stone. He smiled darkly, remembering that, in a way, he was.  
He leant back against the building and stared down. A blanket of fog obliterated the city, blocking his view of the street level. Not that there would have been anything of note to see, the bustling twenty four hour city that he had left sixty years ago was no more. Two world wars and a generation of fear had dulled the inhabitant's hunger for adventure, heightened their collective longing for the hearth, left the city a neutered shell. A suburb of ten million souls.  
Holmes blinked, silently, into the darkness, wondering if what had brought him back after so long was even worth it. He leant down and struck a match on the windowsill below his foot, the tiny circle of light reflected off of the Abbey National building as he lit his cigarette and blew a mouthful of smoke into the damp air below him. No, it had to be done. To come this far and then do nothing would be a mockery. He smiled, an icy, tight-lipped smile, full of poison and a dark, negative logic. His actions would be a memorial, a monument, writ large across the histories of the world. For ever, and ever, amen.  
Holmes let the glowing cigarette fall from his fingers and watched as the orange spot faded into the soupy darkness. 'Goodnight, Irene.' He breathed, to the night in general, and began his descent.  


**To be continued.**


	4. Delicacy: A delicate operation

A delicate operation - Chapter 3

_As some of you may know, in the last month I've moved house, bought a new computer, and re-entered education. And just in case that wasn't enough mental turmoil, I'm now both without home internet access and hopelessly addicted to Welsh language television.  
Therefore if I could ask a little leniency when judging the quality of the editing for this, and the next few instalments, and offer the guarantee that normal service will be resumed shortly.   
As soon as I've watched the _'Pobol y Cwm'_ omnibus, possibly…. _

**Title:** A delicate operation   
**Author:** clarrie  
**Rating:** PG 13 (possibly rising)

The beige painted woodchip paper of the 'Bide a Wee' guesthouse peeled wetly from around the doorframe, it's curled edges stained brown at floor level from the coconut matting which partially covered the threadbare carpeting on the corridor.  
Holmes extended a thin finger and picked distractedly at the substandard decoration. If his plans where to continue apace new arrangements would have to be made, they would need to secure the services of a proficient user of magic, easily enough done, a few questions in the right ears would almost certainly secure a suitable - he shied away from the word replacement.  
Holmes took hold of the door handle and twisted hard, pushing the door inward with a smooth movement. A few hours sleep was what he needed, a rest behind the drawn curtains of his room. He stepped into the shadow of the doorway and threw his coat upon the floor.  
An explosion of movement caught him off guard, the ball of the Slayer's foot smashed into his ribcage, an elbow was bought down heavily on his crown, the shock and pain knocking him to the floor. Holmes lay, stunned, as the Slayer's blows connected savagely with his throat and jaw. Grabbing blindly at his attacker's ankle Holmes pulled the Slayer to the floor, dragging himself to his feet as she fell. Before he could make use of this temporary advantage the Slayer was on her feet again and barrelling towards him, raking her nails across his face and throat, kicking his legs out from under him. Jabbing and clawing, the intent not to destroy, but to wound, to subdue.  
Holmes lay still as the impact of the attack began to wane, the furious, disproportionate strength of his assailant became more controlled, and eventually, stopped. A mouthful of spittle flew at him from the darkness.  
'Make no mistake, _papa,_' spat Russell, staring down at him with contempt, 'If you ever raise a hand to me again, I will end you.'

Sheets of slight but insistent rain were falling from a dishwater sky, still blue with the light of pre-dawn, as Angus Giles reached the front doorway to his lodgings, and -he thought as he attempted to locate his latchkey amongst the detritus that littered his pockets- most of it was endeavouring to flow down the back of his collar. He fumbled the key in his tiredness and bent to retrieve it from the step, wincing a little as his bones protested at their treatment. 'Hello puss,' he yawned, finding himself face to face with the house cat, 'I took the milk train, what's your excuse?'  
'Maarp.' The cat bleated piteously and wrapped itself around his legs, sniffing elegantly at the residual odour of Gile's evening meal of fish paste sandwiches. 'Miiiiip.'   
'That's easy for you to say.' Giles followed the scrawny feline into the hallway and removed his coat and hat, considering with quiet satisfaction the prospect of a few hours sleep before the day proper began.  


'Sunday night, the Paillas, Reed. Scribble it in your diary.'  
'Pardon Brooke?' The two Watchers stood, redundant, in the corridors of Bellum house. Waiting upon the call like two schoolboys in the headmaster's study. The clock on the wall counted down the minutes to their appointment, the time locking them out as surely as the bolted door.  
'We're going to the Pallias on Sunday night, She's got a friend who, against all persuasion on my part, still wants to meet you.'  
'She, I-I-I- Who? Who has a friend?'  
'Oh, keep up Reed. Pol Lopez, from the typing pool, Misses Lopez and Kingdom wish us to escort them to the Pallias on Sunday evening, where there will be dancing and festivities,' he took a drag upon his cigarette and grinned wickedly, 'At the very least. Oops, here we go...  
The door to the Slayer's quarters opened and a thin, mousey woman peered out into the corridor. She tucked a strand of rough, mud coloured, hair behind her ear and fingered the collar of her cardigan. 'Yes?' She enquired, pointlessly, fully aware of their identity.  
'Reed and Brooke, ma'am.' Brooke smiled warmly and extended a hand, 'Modern ballistics training.'   
'Quite.' Sniffed Watcher Harding, the Slayer's personal secretary. The challenge of her young charges development was her's alone, to her was the ultimate responsibility of the direction in which the Slayer's brief blossoming would taker her, and to her the burden of attempting to insure that it was not too brief. It was not a burden which sat easily upon her shoulders, and like innumerable Slayer PSs before her she had become petty and unapproachable. 'The Slayer will be taking her instruction in the main practise hall.' She peered down her nose at the two men, no mean feat given the nature of their comparative heights. 'If you would care to follow me.'

Bellum House hummed with military purpose. The main block, separated from the nurseries and sleeping quarters by winding corridors and thick walls of duty, rang with the sounds of activity as varied as it was essential. From one room, the steady tapping of typewriter keys spoke of a translating block, rendering an ancient volume in a tongue long dead, or more likely never truly alive, into, Standard English, loose leaf and Times New Roman. From another, girlish cries, hardened and too adult, as life and death conflicts were rehearsed in the safety of familiar surroundings, practised over and again until the point of ending becomes routine and the sensation of mortality loses it's sting. The sparse, happy sound which drifted into their hearing sounded isolated and out of place, to Reed, carefree chatter a rent in the cloth of responsibility from which Bellum was sewn.  
They did indeed care to follow Watcher Harding, riding in the wake of her progress through the building at a slight distance. Taking long slow strides in contrast to her bustling, steps, short and rapid, her low heels rapping out a message on the stone and linoleum which lined their path, a staccato distillation of her personality.  
'Through here please.' Harding disappeared through a set of modern doors, painted wood and safety glass sitting oddly in the carved stone of the building. Brooke paused in the corridor to finish his cigarette, holding it between the tip of his finger and thumb like a cinema gangster. He caught Reed's eye and gestured to the inscription above the door. 'How's your Latin, Reed old man?'  
Reed frowned, puzzled. 'Duobus pedibus super terram? I'm sorry Ozzie I don't quite...'   
Brooke let the cigarette fall to the stone floor and ground it beneath his heel. 'One of Mycroft's little jokes, a word from the prodigal to remind us all to keep on our toes.  
_'This agency stands two footed upon the ground?_' Ghosts need not apply!' He gaped, turning excitedly to his erstwhile mentor, 'By God Brooke I thought you were pulling my leg when you told me that.'  
'Deadly serious.'  
'Have - Have you ever met him?'  
'Mycroft? Not that I know of, got three days off school for his funereal. Had a bit of a soft spot for the old bugger ever since...'  
'No, the other one.'  
'No-no I'm bloody glad to say I haven't,' Brooke took out a fresh cigarette, tapped it distractedly against the wall and placed it between his lips before remembering himself and replacing it carefully in his top pocket, 'Don't go looking to meet the dead, Reed. There's a damn good reason they call it passing on.' He grinned, shaking off the melancholy. 'Come on - duty calls....'  


'Mister? 'ere Mister! You dropped something! Mister!' The shambling form, draped in a coat that had at some long ago point been a respectable black velvet, now worn and shiny, darned all over in slightly mismatching thread, halted it's unsteady progress and turned it's head silently at the sound of the cries. White hair hung lank and shiny around it's shoulders and lined and twisted hand curled desperately around it's bundles. He watched as the ragged youth approached him, holding an object aloft and yelling. 'Here, mister! You want to take more care you do, there's all sorts round here.' The youth bought his hand down from above his head as he reached him, 'There's plenty who'd take advantage of a nice old gent like yourself.' The nasty little sound of a flick knife engaging filled the gap between them. 'Your wallet, guv, if you don't mind,' growled the youth, still smiling, 'and no heroics. I don't carry a thing if I'm not prepared to use it.'  
His victim watched him without speaking, his eyes, watery and slightly bulbous beneath the wrinkled lids, remaining expressionless, but did not move.  
'Come on, Grandad. I ain't got all day.' Hissed the youth nastily, 'Didn't no one ever tell you that time is money?'  
His victim continued to watch him without moving or speaking. Making no attempt to cry for help, but giving no sign of handing over any of his possessions.  
'Look you stupid old sod, stop -' The youth's words were halted mid sentence, his eyes grew wide and bulged out of their sockets with fear. He began to claw at his throat, clutching at the throbbing jugular as if there were a creature contained within which might hope to catch and kill. A soft, hopeless, gurgle bubbled between his lips and he fell to the ground.  
He bent over the now lifeless body of the youth and silently, methodically went through his pockets, taking anything which held his interest. He picked up the flick knife from the gutter, where the youth had dropped it in panic and tested the blade. Still without a word he cut a length of dirty hair from the youth's scalp, and slipping it into his pocket, went on his way....

Reed watched the muscular young woman, as she danced back and forth, striking a dummy with feet and fists, driving a stake up through the ribs, down through the breastbone, through the back, the stomach, the shoulder blades, finished she slumped at the dummy's feet.  
'Slayer!' Barked Harding at her charge. 'You will stand up straight in the presence of a Watcher!'  
'Watcher Reed, Sir!' The young girl jumped rigidly to attention and saluted briskly. 'Watcher Brooke, Sir!'  
'Morning Emily...' Muttered Reed smiling wanly over Brooke's shoulder as the senior Watcher stepped forward mischievously.  
'What's up, kiddo?' Cooed Brooke grinning wickedly, 'How's tricks?'  
The Slayer remained immobile, her gaze darting nervously towards her mentor for reassurance.  
'Watcher Brooke would like you to provide a report of your actions.' Translated Harding, taking a seat at the edge of the hall and producing a notebook. 'If you will.'  
The Slayer relaxed slightly, 'Mission was partially successful, resulting in the neutralisation of target 41b.' She paused, 'I believe that she was commonly referred to as the Lillith.'

'Now, our old staff sergeant used to have a saying, didn't he Reed?' Brooke stood beside the Slayer, adjusting her pose until the gun sat naturally in her hand, 'He used to say, don't go into Seoul, and if you do, don't come crying to me when they shrivel up and drop off. Which isn't really all that applicable in your case, but he had other advice too which I'm sure we can use. Fire.' A specially tipped bullet ripped through the target. 'Good girl! Now try a killing shot.' A second bullet pierced the right side of the cardboard dummy's chest. 'Well done!' Brooke beamed, 'We could have done with her out there, eh Reed?'  
Reed smiled faintly. 'Now, Emily - that is - Slayer Hopkins, have you ever had a gun before? Well, you'll find that you'll have to be much more thorough when cleaning this than you would a normal handgun. Due - you see - due to the unique nature of the bullets. If you'd care to watch me do it first then we can - Oh, hello.' Reed lifted a hand in greeting as Wyndham-Pryce appeared in the doorway. 'Are you looking for Edward?'  
The little man stared past him at Brooke and the Slayer. 'The Lillith?' A flicker of cruelty passed across his usually gentle features, shocking Reed a little. 'The bitch is dead?'  
'Ding dong, Monty lad,' replied Brooke with a great show of casualness, 'alert the munchkins.'   
The older Watcher's posture relaxed as if a burden had been suddenly removed from his shoulders, 'Goodness, goodness me,' He muttered to himself, smiling softly, 'dear me.' He turned on his heels and hurried away.  
'Give my love to young Imelda,' called Brooke after his colleague, adding, quietly as an afterthought, 'Poor old sod.'

'Up and about at last Miss? Doesn't seem worth it somehow, the day's nearly over.' Norman Gardener paused in his polishing and smiled shyly at Russell as she slunk into the reading lounge. 'Been a bit poorly have you?'   
She smiled distantly, and settled in the worn armchair like the lady of shallot reinterpreted for a domestic setting. 'Travel is so tiring.'  
'That it is, Miss, that it is. You travel a lot do you? If you don't mind me asking.' 'Sometime it seems to be all we do.' She sighed.  
'Rather you than me, that's all I can say.' Norman frowned. 'Couldn't stand _his_ company, still, like they say, you can't choose your family.'  
'No.'  
'Still, could be worse I suppose.' Chattered Norman amiably. 'Did he have a bad war?'  
'Hmm?' Muttered Russell, staring into nothing. 'I believe he did rather well out of them.' She snapped out of her stupor and turned a winning smile upon her host. 'I wonder, do you know of anywhere nice I might pick up something to eat? I confess I'm a little unfamiliar with the area, and I don't know where a traveller might eat alone without being bothered.'  
'The _'Hound and Hall'_ is a nice clean place for a young lady, Miss, homely like. Not like one of them horrible coffee bars places.'  
'And a traveller might be alone there? Without anyone bothering them?'  
'I suppose so, Miss. Never really thought about it' He gave the sideboard a final sweep with the duster. 'Still, nothing wrong with liking your own company I always say.' He pushed the grubby cloth into his pocket and wiped the palm of his hands discreetly on his jersey. 'Time for a brew up, I think.' Norman smiled again, nervily. 'Cup of tea before you go?'  


'The Gheddes isn't back yet I'm afraid.' Said Miss Holmes, by way of greeting as Reed and Brooke entered the library. ' I must say Saturday evenings are usually deader than Friday afternoons, it's rather nice to see - oh, dear me, how awful of me, babbling on - there's nothing wrong is there, to bring you here?'  
Brooke rolled his eyes. 'Reed wanted to find out about the Lillith. Didn't you Reed?'  
'A bit,' Reed nodded shyly, 'I wondered if there was any information?'  
'The Lillith?' Miss Holmes frowned thoughtfully as she began to skim through the index, 'Turned in '98, of American Jewish extraction, New Jersey I believe, but living in Europe -'  
'Couldn't pass a crib without stopping. ' Interjected Brooke, sprawling languidly beside the short term loans.  
'Quite,' Murmured Miss Holmes, raising an eyebrow slightly at Brooke's phrasing, 'Why they called her the Lillith, I imagine,' She scrawled a list of titles on a sheet of pale notepaper in a tight, economic script, 'Absolutely monstrous - here, try these volumes. You really ought to talk to Wyndham-Pryce though, if you're interested.'  
'Really?' Reed took the paper and skimmed the titles eagerly, 'I hadn't thought to-'  
'Monty's a bit busy at the mo' Bats.' Brooke took his cigarette case from his breast pocket, and began to tap it distractedly on the tabletop, 'Got enough on his plate already.'  
'Not trouble with Edward again, surely?' Sighed Miss Holmes, 'It's enough to break your heart, really it is,' She shook her head sadly before adding, practically, 'Ozzie dear I've told you before that you're not to smoke in here.'  
'Consider me told, Batty,' Brooke grinned sheepishly and replaced the unlit cigarette in his pocket. 'You may slap my wrist if you wish.'  
'Disrespectful child,' clucked Miss Holmes, 'Oh dear,' She pressed her hand to her mouth, 'You'll have to clear out I'm afraid, that is unless you want to lock up?'  
'Really?' Broke grinned, 'The G.I. reunion already is it? How time flies.'  
Miss Holmes did not dignify this with an answer, save to drop a bunch of keys onto the tabletop. 'Try and make sure that he doesn't draw moustaches on any of the woodcuts, won't you Reed?'  
'I'll do my best.' Reed opened the first of a pile of volumes, 'Have fun.'  
'We'll be checking to make sure that you're back before ten young lady, and don't let us hear that you've been hanging around one of those coffee bars with any of your beatnik friends -'   
'Oh hush,' Miss Holmes slipped her coat on hurriedly, 'I've to be at one of Mrs Shoales' meetings, is all...'  
'Dorothy Shoales? Crikey Bats, I never would have put you down as one of the table rapping and ouija board brigade.'  
'What? Oh, no, dear me no, she's no more a medium than I am a small.' Miss Holmes gave an odd, schoolgirl giggle. 'I'm, um, I'm something in the way of a fifth columnist, dear, ensuring that it's only noxious smells that the kiddies make with their chemistry set and, um, not nitro-glycerine, as it were...' She laughed again, embarrassed at taking such childish delight in her adventure. 'Night night.'  
Brooke grinned. 'Night night, Bats.'

'Going out, Miss?' Norman smiled, nervously. _'Hound and hall'_, dinner, 'course, you are, forget me own head next, I will.' He cleared his throat, 'That's, uh, that's a very nice frock if you don't mind me saying. Sweetheart collar they call it, don't they? You don't see many of them about nowadays.' He blushed. 'Me sister had a dress like that, is, uh, that's how I know the name like.'  
Russell laughed, 'I'll bow to your superior knowledge in the matter, Mr Gardener, I don't follow the fashion pages much.'  
'Good thing too, Miss, the way these girls dress nowadays. All those stripy shirts and trousers, they look like a bunch of little boys.'  
'I really had no idea that I was so behind the times,' laughed Russell. 'I shall have to go shopping.'  
'Oh don't worry yourself, Miss, that's a smashing frock.' Norman picked delicately at a spot of dirt on the counter, 'You seem happier tonight, Miss, if you don't mind me saying. In yourself like.'  
'Do you know Mr Gardener, I believe I am.' Russell smiled, another winning smile. 'I really think I might have a little fun tonight.'  


**To be continued.**


End file.
